


Cannibal vs. Assassin: The Showdown

by elevenpacesleft



Category: Hannibal (TV), Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Badass Eve Polastri, Cabarets, Crack Treated Seriously, Curiosity, Dancing, Dark Will Graham, Drinking, Established Relationship, Eve is a dancer, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Hannibal is the comic relief, Hannibal vs Villanelle, Hannibal's sniffing superpower, Humor, M/M, MI6, Modern Dance, Murder Husbands, Murder Wives, On the Run, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Stalking, The Twelve - Freeform, Undercover, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, showdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28160598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elevenpacesleft/pseuds/elevenpacesleft
Summary: “Obviously, they do kill people based on those dance moves alone,” Hannibal tittered, but quietly enough as to not attract attention.Will stifled a laugh.“That is not a reason to ruin their night though,” Hannibal decided, following Will through the crowd.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

Gasps. Scuffling. 

Two pairs of figures stood twenty paces apart in a dark, echoing room. Each was huddled oddly, one holding another in front of them, struggling feebly in the vice of their captors. 

“So we are at an impasse. Let’s resolve this peacefully, avoid any further bloodshed,” said a tall, fair man.

His amicable tone elicited a scoff from the other side of the room.

“Sure, let’s pretend you actually want that,” said a tall, fair woman. She had a biting Russian accent, and a 9-millimeter handgun held bruisingly to the temple of one very disoriented (what else is new) and very annoyed (oh, Hannibal) Will Graham. He was currently doing his best to make out the woman held at the point of one of his favorite not-for-murder hunting knives. 

From what he could tell she was petite with long, loosely curled hair. But silhouetted as she was, the only other information he could glean about her condition was that she was probably about to ruin his lover’s six-month no kill streak, and christen a knife he’d really rather not have christened, all in one go. He’d sigh dramatically if his windpipe wasn’t so restricted. 

“I can assure you that’s the furthest thing from what I want,” Hannibal said, snapping Will back to the moment.

“If you didn’t want a dead twink and a gigantic dry-cleaning bill, you wouldn’t have let him follow us out of the Cabaret. That would be stupid. Are you that stupid?” She paused, and Will got the impression she was looking Hannibal up and down. “You certainly dress like an idiot. Paisley and plaid? Really?”

“Bold words for a woman whose dance partner is a flick of the wrist from permanently losing her balance.”

Will could feel the solid muscle of the Russian woman’s bicep flex tighter around his neck, and was vaguely aware of continued negotiations. He thought he heard something along the lines of, “Pink really isn’t your color,” “Your boyfriend smells like a discount hooker,” “You radiate mommy-issues,” and “I fucking hate Lithuanians.” He didn’t, or couldn’t, truly listen. Lights were beginning to pop behind his eyes, and his ears were ringing louder and louder.

“Villanelle!” The grip on his neck loosened. Hannibal’s captive had finally spoken, and the bickering ended abruptly. “He’s about to pass out. You’re killing him, let up.” 

Evidently, Eve Polastri could ascertain his condition much better than he could hers.

Eve strained away from the knife digging into her temple, and looked up into the sharp-featured, face of Hannibal Lector. “You don’t have a gun on you.”

“I noticed you discreetly patting me down during our little fight,” Hannibal commented, dryly. “Smart to check for other weaponry, but I prefer to keep things simple. Former law enforcement?”

“Current.” 

Will noticed Hannibal’s face flash with some surprise at that. Not that anyone else would see it but him. He was surprised too. 

***

Three days ago Will had caught the metaphorical scent of a serial killer while Hannibal had caught a literal one (“Fresh blood, Will, and gunshot residue.”) while traveling through Dresden. 

Will, ever the investigator, even while on the run from the still-licensed ones, became intrigued after stumbling across a posed corpse. 

The man had been shot in the head, cleanly, and at some distance. He was one of their contacts for fake papers as they tip-toed their way through Europe: Yusuf Schlicting. Will would have called it a simple hit, if Schlicting hadn’t been stripped nude, hands bound at the wrist in a supplicating gesture, and his face manipulated to look like an anime female, complete with “kawaii???” painted on a glass shard stuffed into his lipsticked mouth. 

Returning to their hotel room to double-check with Hannibal that he 1) didn’t watch hentai and 2) didn’t watch hentai and then kill Yusuf, Will brought him to the crime scene. 

“It’s a woman, a hit-woman, I think,” Will said. “With a great deal of flair.”

“She does wear expensive perfume,” Hannibal noted. “And has a female companion who decidedly doesn’t.”

“I think she’s contracted to kill, or was at some point. But she loves to play with her food. She can’t help it. I don’t think this is so much a message as something she thought was funny, or ironic.”

“Well, Mr. Schlicting did have a reputation as a misogynist.” 

Will wrinkled his nose. “Then why were we doing business with him?”

“I think you lost the moral high ground when you decided to start fucking me and eating people, Will.” Hannibal paused. “I actually was planning something not dissimilar to this after we received the documents.”

“Lovely. I’m glad you’re happy. Now we have to find another guy who makes flawless Moldovan passports.” 

Hannibal was still surveying the scene. “I think this was done by a client or a potential one.”

“Rough crowd.”

“Very.”

The former FBI agent slung his arms around the cannibal’s waist, pulling him close. “Care to play a game of cats and mice? For old times sake. We’ll be spending more time here than we planned, after all.” 

“Probably more like a game of cats and cats, dear Will,” Hannibal breathed, contentedly. “In any case, it’s always prudent to study the methods of one’s peers.”

It was at a crowded cabaret that hosted a popular burlesque in the middle of a still-bombed out a section of the city that the combination of blood, gunshot reside, perfume (“Fucking Fabulous,” by Tom Ford, Hannibal later identified via a trip to the shopping district), and Dove soap converged. 

Will had suggested it. They were looking for two women, also possibly on the run, that Will suspected were also possibly gay. The cabaret catered specifically to the city’s queer population and was far enough off the beaten path to be appealing to those underground. It was somewhere Hannibal would have likely dragged him anyway. The cocktails were top-notch and the entertainment well-reviewed in a niche local magazine Will suspected only psychopaths and hipsters read. 

Naturally, it was a really fun place.

A crowd that would have ordinarily filled him with dread felt electric and sensuous in the context of a hunt. The dance floor swam with bodies undulating in red neon, go-go dancers on pedestals lined the path to elegant seating, and past that, to a velvet curtained stage. 

Hannibal walked close behind Will as they leisurely crossed to melee to a soft leather booth in a corner, hand resting casually on his lover’s hip all the way. 

“Fresh blood, Will, and gunshot residue,” Hannibal said, whispering hotly in the other man’s ear. “I could not yet tell you who due these close quarters.” 

The place really was packed and full of all types. Men, women, both, and neither, dancing together, smoking together and drinking together. It amazed Will that Hannibal could pick up anything so specific. 

As Will continued to observe the other patrons, Hannibal had not left his post at Will’s ear, biting and sucking it worshipfully between his own musings.

“If they are here, that means they are not sorry.” Nip. “Perhaps they are even celebrating his death.” Lick. “It appeared to be an impulsive kill.” Teeth tugged on his ear lobe. “But not so special they went somewhere nicer than this.” Lips traced the shell of Will’s ear, and he felt Hannibal inhale gently. 

“Behave yourself, darling.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I am completely innocent,” Hannibal said, lips meandering to Will’s jaw.

Will allowed himself a small sigh of pleasure before rolling his eyes. “This is normal for them. There will be dozens of other kills, doctor. Ah, ahhh. But not all of them get the same treatment. She’s not fixed to a method or presentation. But I. Mmm. I’m not sure how the partner participates.”

“A dominant and a submissive?”

“No. Their relationship...” He stopped speaking as the dance music ended abruptly. The show was about to begin.

“Begrüße meine Liebsten!” A woman in 40’s pinup regalia, with a such a stunning, full hourglass figure Will’s already dry mouth ran dryer, was speaking into an antique microphone on the stage. Hannibal elbowed him. “Willkommen im Teetassen-Kabarett. Bitte heißen Sie unsere Gastdarsteller, die Schönen, die Ungestümen,” she gave a dramatic pause, captivating her audience. Her red, Cupid’s bow lips smiled coquettishly. “ den Präsidenten und die First Lady, in Dresden willkommen!”

The heavy curtains parted, and there, under a spotlight, was Dove soap and Fucking Fabulous. 

Dove soap was dressed in a fitted, green silk evening gown complete with opera gloves. She sat lithely on a plain stool, posed in profile. Above her, Fucking Fabulous wore a devastatingly well-tailored, double-breasted pinstripe suit with an American flag lapel pin, and heeled tuxedo shoes. She stood confidently, one hand reaching out to the First Lady’s shoulder, the other holding a smoking cigarette holder. Their tableau was reminiscent of Greta Garbo. 

It was Hannibal’s turn to get an elbow to the ribs. 

“My apologies, dear Will,” he whispered. “I didn’t expect them to be so attractive.” 

“I honestly thought we cornered the market on being a hot murder duo,” Will murmured back. 

Then the music started. It was a low, jazzy number. After a measure, the women began to move. 

***

Eve’s heart pounded under the stage light, and she tried to control her breathing as best she could before the curtains parted. She wasn’t so much nervous as excited. Theater and dance had been her creative outlet from the age of 4 until she finished her masters degree and moved back to England for work. There’s no time for ballet when you’re trying to catch serial killers.

Until now, that is. 

Eve and Villanelle were in the vague and precarious position of being both on the run and committing sanctioned wet-work for MI6 and The Twelve. Apparently, there wasn’t much of a difference between the two. Good, evil, Eve, Villanelle—it was all the same now. Means and ends, etc. Eve was simply glad to no longer be behind a desk, initial skepticism and morality crisis notwithstanding. In the end, they had chosen each other. 

Their cover was a traveling cabaret act called “The President and the First Lady,” and Eve was thrilled to flex her performer’s muscle again. Villanelle, of course, never stopped flexing. She did need a bit of training up, though.

It was a gender-heretical, high energy, queer modern dance. Their bodies told the story of a lonely wife (Eve), seduced by a mysterious stranger (Villanelle). 

The blonde led, and Villanelle mimed pulling Eve away from her seated position, Eve heeding her call as if in a trance. Push and pull was the central point of Eve’s choreography, each move slowly closing the gap between them, revolving around each other, sensuously.

The lyrics cried out:

“I drank the beast within  
I drank him down so deep  
He got so thin  
And then the beast within  
He learns to swim  
And so I cannot win  
Drink up, drink in”

Then, Eve’s floor-length gown was ripped off (it was a tear-away skirt) into a leotard by Villanelle, causing Eve’s character to distance herself once again. 

“The trees have grown from seeds  
They're planted in my feet  
They crack my bones  
My spine becomes a branch  
To bend, not break  
So bend me back again, again, and then”

Eve returns, yet still, they do not embrace. The seduction continues, mercilessly. 

(Maybe Eve’s story was a little...autobiographical. Could you blame her? She’d been inspired.)

When the first act finally ends, Eve and Villanelle are barely a centimeter apart. It took all of Eve’s concentration not to lick the bead of sweat falling down her partner’s temple. Now was not the time for that. The audience applauded, wildly.

They were halfway through an hour-long set, and it was time for the intermission.

Now with significantly fewer clothes on, the two women retreated to the dressing room for water, a costume change, and possibly an orgasm if they found the time. 

“You like telling them our story, don’t you Eve?” Villanelle purred, re-powdering her face to a ghastly white. “And so do I.” She smirked. “But as we’ve been doing this for over a month, I have an observation.”

“You mean a critique?” Eve asked, lightly. She was refreshing her eyeliner.

“No, no, observation. The show is a hit, obviously. Very well done.”

“Then what is your observation?” Eve turned to face her, smiling slightly. 

“I think you were a little too liberal with the whole “damsel in distress,” thing. It was pretty obvious to me you fought your own expectations of yourself, not me.” 

“I beg to differ.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have the bullet hole in my chest to prove my point.”

“And I have that cute little stab wound you gave me to prove mine,” Villanelle said, kissing the corner of Eve’s mouth. “Did you notice the odd pair in the corner booth?” 

“The funny-looking guy and Mr. Curls?”

“Yes.”

“I noticed them being handsy.”

“They were paying us a lot of attention for a couple on date night. Plus, they are not German.”

“Well, we are the entertainment,” Eve said. She paused before adding, “But you’re right, the way they watched us wasn’t like an audience. It was like...profilers.” With faces that were ever so slightly familiar, Eve thought.

“You think the Americans are after us?” 

“They shouldn’t be. Technically we have clearance from two governments to do what we do, the law enforcement squabbles are just a formality.” 

“Americans probably don’t give a shit. Just barge in and do what they want like usual, hypocrites.” She scoffed.

“In any case, it’s time to get back out there. Let’s profile them back,” Eve said. “And darling? Do something to throw them off your personality, okay?” 

“Smart woman. I like it. Let’s go!” Villanelle bounded out of the room, followed more sedately by Eve. 

Hmm. 

***

Will and Hannibal were three drinks deep, each. The cocktails were better than advertised. Hannibal was enjoying some very expensive French 75’s, while Will had the best Old Fashions of his life. They were definitely giddy at this point, but the fun wasn’t over yet. Their curiosity had yet to be sated. 

The women re-emerged from behind the curtain. Now the brunette wore a red tuxedo jacket over a black leotard and torn stockings. The color symbolism was, in Hannibal’s opinion, a little obvious. That didn’t mean it didn’t have the desired effect. Formerly clad in her pinstripe suit, and apparently a binder, the blonde woman now wore loose, flouncing material in a delirious array of colors. She followed now, instead of leading. A release of control.

But, despite the story playing out, the blonde woman had closed off her eyes. The little insights Will had previously been able to glean stopped. Like a shuttered window. 

“They know they are being observed,” commented Hannibal, glancing at Will’s scrutinizing expression. “The blonde must be the one to worry about if she is the one who must hide.”

“Someone’s got their hands on her reins,” Will said.

“These two really are quite good,” Hannibal muttered, unwilling to talk to during a performance. 

Will did not reply, instead noting the women’s’ musculature. Dove soap screamed “runner,” while Fucking Fabulous had a build close to that of a swimmer: strong shoulders and legs. She could lift her partner easily, and bring her back to earth without the hint of a footfall. 

The finale was aggressive, teasing no longer. 

“Dead round the eyes red rings what a sight there  
Prone to the thoughts of electric nightmares  
Soft like a skin yes I grin if I have to  
You’ve got to, you’ve got to go”

The music was a frenzied, trippingly counterpointed composition. 

“My left hand is a whip and a bandage  
Free to choose where the mark or brand is  
Each one knows how to hide in the carnage  
They’re hiding, they’re hiding”

The women wrapped around each other, alternately pulling their hair and snapping the necks of invisible enemies.

“Crawl on your knees like a bitch we can see you  
Cut through the trees with your claws and your tutu  
Quick drag me back through the dirt that I came from  
God please let me flog that horse”

The final throes of the dance were very much inspired by Martha Graham, thought Hannibal. Geometric shapes thrown into sweeping, momentous arcs. 

“Never comes a day so quickly when you’re not paying attention  
Never comes a day so quickly when you never leave the lights on  
Never comes a day so quickly when you’re not paying attention  
Never comes a day so quickly when you never leave the lights on”

They prowled downstage and fell gracefully backward. Their hooked ankles kept them hovering above the ground, parallel to onlookers. 

Silence.

Rapturous applause. Hannibal immediately gave them a standing ovation. 

“That was outstanding, Will! I sincerely hope there’s no reason to kill them,” he said, eyes on the performers. 

The blonde woman looked embarrassed at the accolades, bowing meekly beside her partner. 

Her eyes met Will’s for a millisecond, and he raised an eyebrow at her. 

You’re not shy, he thought. You’re a psychopath. And your girlfriend helps you get away with murder. Hmm.

As the clapping died down and Hannibal returned to his seat, Will finally spoke. “Hannibal, you adorable bastard, finish that drink. We’re going to the stage door.”

“Do you really think they’ll take audience questions?” Hannibal asked, earnestly. 

“What? No. No, Hannibal I mean we’re tailing them out of here. That was just an expression.”

“Oh. Perhaps I shouldn’t finish this,” he looked into his glass, head buzzing with alcohol and the endorphins of seeing a top-notch recital. The dark-haired woman definitely had training. He wondered, dimly, why they bothered killing people if they weren’t going to use them as props in their creative process. 

Then again, he supposed, not everyone has to be as literal as he. And with that, he knocked back the last of the liquid, ignoring the sober voice in his head telling him that stalking was much better achieved while sober. 

Pish posh. 

“Obviously, they do kill people based on those dance moves alone,” Hannibal tittered, but quietly enough as to not attract attention. 

Will stifled a laugh. 

“That is not a reason to ruin their night though,” Hannibal added, following Will through the crowd.

But instead of leaving, it seems the President and First Lady were taking a spin around the dance floor.

They had emerged from a side door, joining the throng of whirling dancers. 

“Care to dance?” Will said, holding out a hand to Hannibal.

“Always, my love. Are you leading or am I?” He closed the space between them.

“I am,” Will said. 

He led Hannibal through the mish-mash of ballroom and freestyle that was standard at “Die Teetasse.” Hannibal seemed content to stay plastered to his chest for the rest of the night, but Will could feel his empathy and curiosity getting the better of him. 

On the other side of the room, another pair glided smoothly. Watching. 

***

“That one is pathetically besotted,” said Villanelle, needlessly. “It’s...embarrassing to look at.”

Eve kept her face neutral over Villanelle’s shoulder. 

“Yes. But he’s dangerous. I’m nearly positive I’ve seen their faces before, years ago.” It couldn’t have been a UK most wanted list, she still had those memorized and saw updates regularly. But a nagging voice in her head kept repeating those words: most wanted. 

“I might know one of them,” said her companion dryly. “The taller one had a hit on him about eight years ago, but I didn’t get the contract. I don’t recognize the other man.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? I thought when you said Americans it was a guess.” Americans! Suddenly, Eve remembered a case file that floated across her desk back in 2015. They were two of the FBI’s most wanted. She got their file because the bureau suspected they’d flee to Europe. 

“I mean, it’s really none of our business. He’s not dead, so, lizard-face must have come out on top, yes?” 

“It’s absolutely our business. Those two are not American operatives— they’re fugitives.”

“So?” 

“That is Hannibal Lector and Will Graham, cannibalistic serial killers.”

Villanelle wrinkled her nose. “Ew.” She dipped Eve before responding again, now much more vigilant. “Men with compulsions are always so gross, I bet they fuck the bodies. Or fuck on top of the bodies. Or next to the bodies.” She made a retching noise. “Disgusting.”

“I don’t know. You armed?” Eve asked.

“Just these two guns,” she moved Eve’s hands up to rest on her biceps and waggled her thick eyebrows. “And the nine-millimeter in my shoulder holster.”

Eve gave Villanelle a gentle squeeze before responding. “Good. Then we’re leaving. I didn’t know why they were watching us before but now I know it can’t be good. Standard exit strategy?” Eve spun Villanelle to get a better look at their opposing duo’s position, only to find they had vanished.

“Nope, they got the jump on us leaving, chaos won’t be helpful now,” Villanelle said. “Unfortunately.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resolution.

Will decided to preempt the women. Mutual surveillance was an exercise in futility. 

He and Hannibal waited in a group of chatty smokers, camouflaged in plain sight amongst the haze. From the front, they could watch both exits surreptitiously.

***

Eve and Villanelle decided to go out the back. It was a double bluff and it paid off. Out of sight of the cannibals, they were on their way to commit more state-sanctioned murder. And they would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for those meddling cat-callers. 

“Hey baby, I saw your show. Why don’t you walk that tight ass over to me for a change,” said a seedy-looking German. 

“Ignore him,” Eve said. “Stay on point.”

“I wasn’t talking to that blonde dyke I was talking to you! Asian chicks are hot. Come here.” 

“He’s going to get even louder and more obnoxious if we don’t do something,” Villanelle said. “And I simply don’t want to hear it anymore.”

“I said come here, bitch!” 

The volume of this turned a few heads. Luckily, there wasn’t much light in here, just the faint glow of cigarettes and old neon. 

Eve knew there was no reining in her counterpart at this point. 

“It would be rude not to accept his invitation,” Villanelle said, before kissing Eve on the cheek and sauntering over their unknowing saboteur. She broke his neck, easily, propped him up against a fence like he’d drunkenly passed out, and made her way back to Eve, who looked mildly cross.

“That one wasn’t on our list.”

“A gift to you, my darling, Eve.”

And with that they fled, the sound of the cabaret fading into the distance. 

Will stubbed out his cigarette on a brick wall as he watched the women move through the darkness. “A chase. Excellent.” A wolfish grin contaminated his handsome face. He looked at the freshly dead man, then at Hannibal. “I so enjoy the taste of killers.” 

***

“Current.” 

Will and Hannibal (mortal danger tends to sober them up) exchanged incredulous glances. Or, rather, Hannibal raised an eyebrow at Will who in his weakened state gave him a vague sort of wide-eyed look that Hannibal understood perfectly well. This woman was involved in two murders that they knew of and suspected her of many more. 

Will realized she must be the one with their hands on the reigns of the flamboyant psychopath crushing his windpipe. She was the one they had to convince not to kill him or Hannibal for that matter. The moment Will looked into the eyes of Fucking Fabulous by Tom Ford, he knew she was efficient first, sadistic second. The same could not be said for his Murder Husband. This was a fight they would lose, a scenario where they would die in a cold, anonymous warehouse in a cold, anonymous part of town, just out of reach of each other’s arms. Will would not allow it. 

“You’re assassins,” he gurgled out, hoping Hannibal catches his drift and knows exactly who he’s dealing with. 

“We’re more than that, bad boy,” said Villanelle. “We’re the Twelve.”

“Oh shit.”

The implication of the normally verbose cannibal’s unsophisticated, “oh shit,” was not lost on Will. 

“Oh shit is exactly right, Dr. Lector,” said Eve, calmly. “I suggest you drop the knife, kick it away, and we can continue this conversation sans ‘bloodshed.’ Okay?”

Hannibal did the math. He kicked the knife away and released who he now thought of as The Handler. If she was killed, the Twelve would know. All of their agents were microchipped, he knew that much. It had caused him a fair amount of grief some years back. 

“You’re free, now I would request you ask your friend to release mine.” 

“Not so fast. You didn't answer her question: why did you follow us out of the Cabaret?”

“To kill you. Not that it is our intention anymore, of course,” Hannibal answered. 

“Kill us? Hilarious,” chuckled Villanelle. “Fucking men. So stupid. It’s almost endearing. Almost.” 

“You’re not very polite for a member of such an esteemed organization.”

“Killing people isn’t a very polite thing to do, or hadn’t you heard?” Villanelle shot back. 

Will would have laughed if he had any oxygen to spare. It was an observation he’d made a long time ago but never dared say out loud.

“Perhaps not. But, in the spirit of civility, shall we not make introductions? You,” he looked at Eve who was standing cooly in neutral ground. “seem to already know my name. I think I shall, however, introduce myself. Doctor Hannibal Lector, at your service. The man turning blue over there is my husband Will Graham.” 

“Esteemed cannibals,” Eve said.

“Yes, preeminent. Although I was under the impression law enforcement thought we were long dead.”

“We got your file. You’re legally dead but not dead to professional curiosity. Eve Polastri, MI6 special agent. I hunt serial killers.”

“I’m her first catch,” Villanelle said, beaming.

Oh great, thought Will. It’s us, but younger, sober, and female. We’re doomed. 

“Relatable,” said Hannibal. “Now I see that we are peers, colleagues. I am unarmed; so is my dear Will. I would greatly appreciate it if you let him go and allowed us to continue on our way, safe in the newfound wisdom of staying well out of your’s. And out of the way of the Twelve.”

“Doable. You’re not on our list, not yet anyway, Ripper.” Eve said.

“I would be forever in your debt if we remained off of it.”

“I don’t mind having you in my back pocket,” Eve said. “Deal. But we leave first. And we leave you tied up. I want an ensured head start, Hannibal. Courtesy doesn’t equal trustworthiness.”

Eve produced zip ties and duct tape from who knows where and got to work on a pliant Hannibal. She bound him well. He would not be able to break them without outside help. 

Villanelle dropped Will, who was too weak to move. He was bound ever-so-slightly less tight than Hannibal. When his strength returned, all would be well. For now, he was a gasping lump on the floor. 

“I’m so sorry, dear Will. I’ll make you that tea with honey you like as soon as we get home. Whatever you like. You’ll be so spoi-” Hannibal had tried to reach Will, but only succeeded in falling off balance and into a rather undignified position. “-led. Oof.”

Eve and Villanelle watched these proceedings from the doorway looking unimpressed. 

“Isn’t he supposed to be a famous, vicious psychopath?” Villanelle wondered aloud.

Will decided to respond, his breath slowly coming back to him in quivering rasps. “I dunno...ever since he got what he wanted Hannibal’s been kind of punch drunk...blissed out,” Will coughed. “He follows me around, cooks, cleans, and kills people. It’s not head trauma. He changed because we’re in...love.” Hannibal looked at Will adoringly.

Eve processed this. “What’s your excuse? Where’s my special tea?”

“Excuse me for not being your puppy! I’m a human woman!” Villanelle said, indignant.

“You know, women are generally too smart to follow around serial killers,” Will said. He didn’t move to release Hannibal, but sat up awkwardly, looking at the pair in front of him. Curiosity was getting the better of him, again.

“Ha, there goes my MENSA membership,” said Eve.

“Are you actually in MENSA?” asked Villanelle, interested.

“That was sarcasm.”

“I was,” Hannibal said, perking up.

“I know, Hannibal,” Will said.

“They kicked me out for eating people.”

“I know Hannibal.”

“They also revoked my medical license.”

“Yep.”

“But I can still legally practice in Ecuador.”

“Thank goodness.”

Hannibal could tell they were no longer in immediate danger. Despite the uncomfortable position he had been put in, he didn’t want to lose such fascinating conversation partners. After all, it was not everyday he met people he could both write an article about for his favorite psychiatric journal, and exchange trade secrets with. Only once before, actually. 

“So your name is Villanelle? How poetic,” Hannibal said.

“Not the puns...” Will groaned. 

Villanelle laughed. “And your name rhymes with cannibal,” picking the low-hanging fruit. Which also happened to be a bit of a nerve.

“In my defense, I didn’t choose it, and it only rhymes with cannibal in English,” Hannibal began to babble defensively. “I think people constantly overlook this—my first language is Lithuanian. Hannibal doesn’t rhyme with “kanibalas.” in my mother tongue. At least. Not a lot. It’s a slant-rhyme at best. Just an unfortunate irony capitalized on by my idiotic colleague, who, I’ll have you know’s name is “Fred,” which rhymes with dead, whi—“

“It’s campy. I like it.”

“—ch, not incidentally, he is. Who’s laughing now? Wait. You do?”

“Do you really think it says “Villanelle,” on my USSR issued birth certificate, Mr. Cannibal? I’m all in.”

“It’s Dr. Cannibal, my dear.”

“Oh! Apologies.”

Eve sighed. “And on that bizarre note: goodbye, creeps.” She took Villanelle’s arm and left, footsteps nearly silent on the staircase. 

“That was so goddamn weird,” said Will, flatly. 

“That it was, dear Will. That it was.”

**Author's Note:**

> The emcee character is based on Meg Bashwiner.  
> The songs used in this chapter are "What the Water Gave Me," and "Incitatus," by Birdeatsbaby.  
> Germans Translation:  
> "Greetings, my loved ones! Welcome to the Teacup Cabaret. Please welcome our guest actors, the beautiful, the boisterous, the President and the First Lady, to Dresden!"
> 
> I highly recommend listening to the Dresden Dolls first album while reading.
> 
> This will be a 2 chapter fic, second chapter incoming ASAP.


End file.
